


A Dog's Life

by fredbassett



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 14:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1652711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The musketeers are on the trail of a gang of smugglers, but paws and long ears are not much of a help in a fight, as d’Artagnan soon discovers. Oh yes, it's happened again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dog's Life

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Dogsbody, written for this prompt on the Dreamwidth Musketeers kink meme, http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1213.html?thread=1284797#cmt1284797, in which someone wanted d’Artagnan turned into a puppy. Naturally, this struck me as the best idea ever, and equally naturally, a sequel seemed like fun too. There will be a concluding part at some point to what has now, in my mind, become a trilogy.

“Which way?” d’Artagnan demanded, staring around at the labyrinth of abandoned stone workings.

They were underground on the left bank of the Seine, doing their best to sniff out a smuggling ring. The king had been complaining about lost revenue, the cardinal had made a series of excuses as to why the Red Guards couldn’t help and eventually Treville had agreed to send a small detachment of musketeers to do everyone’s dirty work – as usual.

The same small detachment of musketeers that got all the assignments that no one else could handle.

“Don’t know,” Porthos admitted.

“I thought you knew this city like the back of your hand?” Aramis said, holding his torch out to peer down a side passage. The flames cast a warm yellow glow, but didn’t illuminate any great distance ahead.

“Up there, yes. Down here, not so much.”

“There are fresh footprints in the mud,” Athos said, crouching down and staring at the ground.

D’Artagnan looked over his shoulder. The marks on the ground seemed much like others they’d seen. He couldn’t understand why Athos thought they looked fresh and said as much.

Athos gestured at more prints on the opposite side of the passage. “The other marks have gathered water dripping from the roof. These have not, yet there are still drips coming from overhead.”

Athos was right. One had just landed on d’Artagnan’s head. “How do you know they aren’t the marks of our boots? It feels like we’ve been walking in circles.”

“I checked all our boot prints as soon as we came to the first patch of mud. None of these match ours.”

D’Artagnan was no longer surprised why two such fiercely independent men as Aramis and Porthos were content to defer to Athos so much when they were on an assignment. Apart from where alcohol was concerned, the man’s judgment was invariably sound.

“So which way?” he repeated, staring at a choice of at least three different passages.

“The middle one. That’s where the freshest tracks lead. You keep watch at the rear. It will be all too easy for someone to circle around behind us in this warren.”

Athos came smoothly upright, holding the torch in front of him. The tightly-bound rags soaked in tallow would give them approximately an hour of light, and they each carried candles as a back-up, but d’Artagnan hoped they’d be out of there well before needing them. He didn’t relish the idea of finding his way out of the extensive underground workings with only a small, flickering light to assist him.

They moved on as quietly as they could, but with their boots making a sucking noise in the yellowish-brown clay underfoot their progress could hardly be described as silent.

D’Artagnan was doing his best to commit route markers to memory, but there was little to distinguish one section of passage from another. The stone had been quarried to above even Porthos’ reach and the passages were wide, with the roof held up in places by pillars of rock, left behind by the quarrymen. But the pillars themselves had often been robbed of stone as well, narrower in the middle than they were at top of bottom, turning them into decidedly precarious supports that looked like they might fail in their duty at any moment, as some near the entrance they’d used had done, allowing whole sections of the roof to fall in. From what he’d been able to see, it looked like the mine had been worked on a rough grid system, and many of the passages seemed to interlock, but working out the pattern wasn’t easy.

Even in his relatively short time in Paris, d’Artagnan had heard stories of buildings collapsing into disused mine workings, abandoned and forgotten after their limestone deposits had been depleted, but he’d never expected to see the mines from the inside. They’d had to access the workings down a wide shaft, holding tightly to iron hoops set into the rock sides to form a crude ladder. They’d been able to climb down in daylight and then light their torches once at the bottom, but it had been an awkward business. He was just hoping that the return would be easier.

A loud bang and a sudden muzzle flash put paid to that hope as the bullet buried itself in a stone pillar scant inches from his head, sending sharp fragments of rock flying out, one of which gouged a bloody furrow across his right ear. He ducked behind the pillar, hiding the torch that would act as a beacon for any more shots and he could hear the others doing the same.

He reached for his pistol, but an instant later he was face down in the mud, having difficulty coordinating the extra feet he seemed to have acquired. No, not feet… paws. Large hairy paws to go with his large, hairy ears, one of which was hurting quite a lot, especially when he managed to tread on it whilst trying to scrabble back upright in the clinging mud as pistol shots exploded around him, sending chunks of rock flying and filling the air with the sharp smell of gunpowder.

Oh shit, it had happened again.

He had vague memories of his time as a puppy a couple of weeks ago, but they’d faded quite quickly, leaving him with nothing more than a somewhat greater empathy for dogs in general and a slight tendency to chew bones that probably went beyond the bounds of polite behaviour, although in company with Porthos who could devour an entire hog if he put his mind to it, his new-found habits hadn’t attracted too much attention.

His friends were under attack and he needed to help them. The torch he’d dropped was still burning and d’Artagnan wondered if he could use it to cause a distraction. Without stopping to think, he took hold of the wooden handle as close to the middle as he could, clenching it firmly in his teeth and trying to balance the torch as best he could so that the now-guttering flame was out of contact with the damp floor. It was awkward and unwieldy, but he managed to get it off the ground. Once he’d succeeded in that aim, he ran as quickly as he could across the passage, hoping that he might confuse their attackers.

A shot was immediately fired in his direction, but sailed harmlessly over his head as whoever had the gun had clearly been expecting someone taller. There were obviously some advantages to having a belly that was perilously close to the ground, but he did have to be careful with his wretched ears.

A confusing morass of sound and smell assaulted those same ears, making it hard for him to think. He knew he had friends he needed to help, but he couldn’t remember their names or why he was now running around somewhere dark that smelled of mud and rock, carrying a stick that was burning at one end. With the stick still held firmly in his teeth, he turned around and ran back to the men who’d once been nice to him and given him meat. He recognised their voices, even if they did sound pretty cross at the moment. Maybe they’d like the stick? After all, they each seemed to be carrying one.

Another loud bang was accompanied by a flash of light and a sharp smell that even overrode than nasty stink coming off the burning stick. Something knocked him over onto his side and his leg hurt. He dropped the stick and managed to get back up, but one of his legs wouldn’t work. He lifted it off the ground, paw dangling, and whined. His leg hurt a lot.

The combination of over-whelming noise and sharp scents was making his head hurt and his eyes water. It was dark and he was having trouble remembering what he’d been trying to do, then another loud bang went off and things suddenly got an awful lot darker.

* * * * *

Aramis ducked behind a wide stone pillar.

He needed to reload his pistol and would have to rely on his friends to cover him while he was vulnerable like this. They’d traded shots with the smugglers but hadn’t yet engaged them hand-to-hand, although that would come soon, he was sure of it. The burning torch propped next to him against the wall gave off an acrid reek and uncertain light, but after long years as a soldier, he could reload by touch alone in the pitch dark, if need be.

His fingers moved swiftly, almost of their own accord. He tore the top from a powder charge with his teeth, tipped it into the muzzle and followed that with the lead shot, all the while keeping his breathing steady to minimise any tremor in his hands. The others would be automatically counting down in their heads, knowing almost to the second how long it would take him to ready two pistols. He hooked the first back onto his belt and pulled the second one free, repeating the movements whilst remaining alert to the ebb and flow of the action around him.

Once ready, he left the torch where it was, picked up a large stone, and threw it against one of the other pillars, in the approximate direction of where he believed their adversaries to be. Another ill-spent pistol shot, followed by a gasp of pain, was his reward. The direction from which the return of fire had come told him that Porthis was, as ever, vigilant. Aramis grabbed the torch and made ready to join the fray.

The next noise he heard took him a moment to process; a soft, breathy whine, coming from somewhere behind him. He ducked out from behind the pillar, caught a glimpse of a guttering torch lying on the ground, and immediately cast his eyes around for the body of a fallen comrade, his heart beating uncomfortably in his chest at the expectation of seeing d’Artagnan, injured, maybe dying. But of the youngest member of their group, there was no sign.

Aramis heard a second whine, followed by what sounded suspiciously like a growl, but there was no time to investigate further. Another volley of pistol shots burst around him. He leaned around the pillar, caught sight of one of their attackers and fired. The shot took the man in the face, punching a bloody hole through his cheek and dropping him like a stone.

Sweeping his sword from its sheath, Aramis grabbed the torch in his other hand and ran to join his friends.

Athos was engaged sword to sword with one of the smugglers and it was clear who had the upper hand. The man was no match for the Athos’ cold skill with the blade. Porthos had another man pinned against a towering pile of broken stone. A powerful blow from the big musketeer’s gloved hand to the man’s stomach expelled the breath from him in one painful exhale and a second blow to the chin knocked him unconscious.

Several torches had been dropped, and Porthos’ had been extinguished. As Aramis ran forward to cover his back against another of their attackers, he caught sight of a torch, still burning, but strangely close to the ground, being carried to Porthos.

“It’s the dog!” Porthos exclaimed.

Aramis saw him bend down and take the torch off the little creature that was limping gamely along, one bloodied hind leg held awkwardly off the ground. He saw more blood matted in the fur of one of its absurdly long ears before his attention was taken by the sudden rush of at least three more smugglers, none of whom appeared in the slightest bit interested in yielding when challenged to do so by Athos.

Close quarter fighting in the maze of mined passages with treacherous, rock-strewn mud underfoot was not easy, and their opponents were unwilling to concede any ground, having the advantage of being familiar with the terrain. Aramis swayed to one side, narrowly avoiding a sword thrust to the guts, then swept his torch at the man’s face. It came close enough the singe his attacker’s long, straggly beard, eliciting a curse casting doubt on his mother’s morals. A jab to the man’s chest with the torch sent the man staggering backwards and Porthos, ever the master of improvised weapons, sent a rock crashing into the back of his skull.

“There appear to be more of them than we were led to believe,” Athos said quietly, able, as ever, to fight and talk without even sounding scant of breath. “Where is d’Artagnan?”

“I have no idea,” Aramis is responded, parrying a vicious thrust from a heavier sword than his own. He might lack Athos’ total mastery of the blade, but he could more than hold his own in such circumstances. “He could be anywhere in this maze.”

A frown creased Athos’s brow. He knew it was not like d’Artagnan to be far from them on a mission, especially when he had been charged with watching their backs, but their young friend was capable of looking after himself. They would have to trust to his good sense and fighting abilities for now. They had other problems closer to home.

With a deft movement of his sword, Athos slipped past the smuggler’s guard, his sword the natural extension of his arm, and drove it into the man’s chest, ending his life in a rush of blood.

A shouted order from one of the men in a dialect that Aramis recognised as Breton caused their attackers to fall back, taking to their heels, retreating further into the mines.

“Do we follow?” Aramis asked.

Athos nodded. “We need to finish this. If we let them melt away into the shadows we will have achieved nothing. Besides, it is likely they have taken d’Artagnan. We cannot abandon him.”

Aramis nodded. They needed to press home what little advantage they might have gained from the fact that four of the smuggling gang now lay dead. They took advantage of the lull in the engagement to reload their pistols and check the state of the remaining torches and then they were ready.

A whine from the ground at their feet drew Aramis’s attention to the dog. The small creature had plonked itself down at Athos’ feet and was staring up at him with an expression of almost comical devotion on its face, the result, no doubt, of the amount of meat Athos had slipped it on the puppy’s visit to the garrison on the previous occasion d’Artagnan had gone missing.

Athos looked down at the dog, his expression giving nothing away, but then a look of resignation settled on his face. He handed his torch to Aramis for a moment, unbuttoned the front of his jacket and then picked up the puppy, slipping it inside so that only its head and absurdly long ears poked out. The little creature whined at the pressure on its damaged leg, but snuggled against Athos’ chest and showed no signs of wanting to get away from the unexpected confinement.

“If this becomes known in the garrison, I will personally arrange postings for you both to somewhere exceedingly remote where you will have nothing but the company of sheep for a month.”

Aramis exchanged a look of amusement with Porthos. They were both struggling to hold back a grin at the sight of their laconic leader with a puppy nested happily inside his jacket. “Our lips are sealed,” Aramis conceded. “I shall speak of it to none, other than perhaps my confessor. He has a dog of which he is exceedingly fond.”

Athos gave them both a sideways look through narrowed dark eyes that contrived to be more threatening than staring into the barrel of a musket. He grabbed the torch from Aramis’ hands and together they went in search of the smugglers.

An ambush was inevitable and they all knew it as they moved cautious along the passage, all too conscious of the fact that their torches would act to draw the fire of any attacker like a moth to the candle.

The sudden explosion of pistol shots cane as no surprise, but thanks to a warning growl from Athos’ small passenger, they gained a vital second to hold their torches out to the extent of their arms and flatten themselves against the rock walls. The bullets did no harm, but their return of fire did better and, in a matter of seconds, the battle had returned to the close-quarter fight of earlier.

A giant of a man, bigger even than Porthos, strode up, sword in one hand and dagger in the other, relying on the dim light given by candles in niches around what was clearly the smuggler’s lair. The musketeers had run them to earth, that much was clear, but like all cornered rats, their quarry would not give up without a fight, not with the dubious pleasures of the king’s hospitality in the Chatelet the only reward they would get for failure.

Aramis debated using his pistol against the man, but Athos had already stepped forward, sword raised, clearly intending to engage the man blade to blade.

“Athos, be careful of the puppy,” Aramis said in an undertone. The giant had seen the bundle in Athos’s jacket and a malicious smile had already spread across the man face.

The look Athos turned on him could easily have frozen Hell. “Aramis, please…” The scarred lip leant itself to a sneer and Athos had no objection to trading on that.

The clash of blade on blade was sudden and echoingly loud in the cavernous chamber they had entered, but Aramis’ attention was claimed by the sudden rush of two men towards him from behind one of the frequent stashes of unused stone, removed by the miners but lacking commercial value on the surface, where it was the larger blocks that were most sought after for building stone. He turned sideways, presenting less of a target and brought his arm up, taking aim and firing in one smooth movement, practised so often that it had become second nature.

One of the men dropped to the ground, his hands clutching at his chest. The second one ran at Aramis, sword raised, face contorted in fury. Killing was something that Aramis tried hard not to take pleasure in, but with the hot flare of battle in his veins, it was hard not to exult in the fight itself rather than the outcome.

A roar from Porthos to him that his friend had succeeded in talking down another of their adversaries and shot from Aramis’ second pistol hit another in the shoulder, taking the fight out of him as he dropped to his knees, face contorted in pain. If they were careful, one or two might remain alive for questioning. Breaking the gang in Paris was only part of the problem. They needed sufficient information to be able to identify where the smuggled goods were entering France and who was responsible for disposing of the goods in the capital.

Of the three of them, it was always Athos who fought silently, his face as mask of concentration, giving nothing of his thought and feelings away. The giant facing him in the deadly dance of blade against blade had a different style and kept up a steady stream of taunts and invective, the point of his blade never wavering in a relentless attack on Athos’ chest, or rather aimed at the small bundle of fur huddled in the leather pouch formed by Athos’ jacket.

Every thrust of steel was parried with an economy of movement that was the envy of all in the regiment. Athos was able to control the fight by anticipating his opponent’s every move, always ready with his defence, deflecting the blade, giving the other man no alternative but to employ a predictable move to give himself a clear path to his target.

The puppy remained wholly still within the confines of Athos’ jacket, the only movement being that of its ridiculous ears, one of which was now clotted with blood. Its mouth was open and it was panting, but it made no sound as its soulful dark eyes remained fixed on a man who was now intent on describing in detail just how he intended to fillet the little creature.

Aramis knew the words would have no affect whatsoever on Athos’ concentration. There were two types of fighter, those who would waste their breath on talk, and those like Athos who would remain as cold and silent as a maiden’s grave, no matter what provocation was offered.

Sensing that his words were making little difference in the fight, the giant dropped smoothly from a high line engagement to a sudden thrust in low line at Athos’ groin. A semi-circular parry of consummate skill gathered the attacking blade, sweeping it to one side. Athos had wrists of steel, and despite his opponent having the advantage of height, reach and also strength, the man had no doubt not practised for long hours on the training ground as Athos had, taking on man after man in the regiment.

The smuggler’s movements had started to become a little wild, the giant attempting to press home his attacks by means of strength only, abandoning what style he possessed, but all that did was allow Athos to redouble his attack, forcing the other man onto his back foot and making him give ground. The smuggler didn’t know it yet, but at the moment he took his first step backwards, Athos had effectively broken him. This stage of a fight often reminded Aramis of the sight a beheaded chicken continue to run around a farmyard, seemingly unaware that its head was lying sightless in the dust.

A movement of Athos’ blade, almost too fast for the eye to follow, opened a wide gash across the man’s throat. Blood spurted forth as look of mingled surprise and shock settled on the giant’s face. Aramis instinctively touched the cross around his neck as the man’s life left him in a rush of hot blood. Athos sprung back into a fighter’s stance, his eyes immediately seeking the next threat.

“It’s over,” Aramis told him. “We even have two survivors for the cardinal to question, as ordered.” He gestured to the man kneeling on the ground, cradling his injured arm, all the fight having left him. The other was, he hoped, stll lying unconscious at the scene of their first skirmish.

“Now we can find d’Artagnan,” Porthos rumbled, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown, accentuating the deep furrow that crossed one eye.

Athos sheathed his sword and looked around the chamber, eyes resting first on the bodies of their opponents and secondly on the barrels and crates of contraband stacked up against the walls of the cavern. The puppy, unconcerned by how close it had come to being spitted on the point of the dead giant’s sword, turned its face up to that of its rescuer and bestowed a wet, sloppy lick on his face.

Athos grimaced. “No tongues, little one.” He gestured to the man on the ground. “Tie him up. We need to return to the barracks and talk to Treville.” The puppy licked him again with more enthusiasm, and Aramis noticed a strange look settle on Athos’s face as his eyes met those of the little animal.

“We need to find d’Artagnan!” Porthos repeated.

The look Aramis couldn’t quite interpret moved smoothly into a more familiar frown as Athos regarded the small dog gazing up at him with complete devotion with something approaching disgust tempered by wry amusement. “You and I need have words on the subject of bladder control, my furry friend.”

And despite his concern for their missing companion, that even brought a smile to Porthos’s face.

* * * * *

The return to the garrison was uneventful.

Athos proved as adept at finding his way out of the stone mines as he had at leading them in there, and with their two remaining torches giving off smoky, flickering light, they reached the bottom of the entrance shaft.

With the puppy still tucked into his jacket, Athos was able to use both hands to climb the latter, with Aramis standing below him, arms outstretched in case their small companion decided to make an ill-advised bid for freedom.

Messages were sent to Treville at the palace. Porthos, still glowering and demanding to know when they would return with a search party for their missing friend, was not easily placated when Athos suggested they retired to their room to await their captain’s return and dress the puppy’s wounds. It took a stern word from Athos to pacify Porthos. The man was a loyal friend and the thought of leaving d’Artagnan to wander lost in the mines, clearly irked him, as indeed it irked Aramis, but there was something in Athos’ demeanour that brooked no defiance. Their leader had something on his mind that he plainly had no wish to share in public.

* * * * *

D’Artagnan came awake slowly, conscious of pain in his leg and a throbbing in his ear. He struggled to sit up, wondering how the hell he had ended up on his mattress in the garrison when his last memory was of entering the old limestone mines under the left bank in search of smugglers.

“Was I injured?” he said, staring up into the concerned face of Porthos, who was leaning over him.

“Aye, you could say that,” Porthos said. “You took a bullet in the thigh and you’ve got a chuck out of your ear. Nothing serious.”

But there was something in Porthos’ dark eyes that belied that statement.

D’Artagnan looked at each of his friends in turn. Aramis was smiling at him; a look of distinct amazement on his face. Porthos was clearly on edge and trying hard to disguise it. Athos bore the same inscrutable mask of calm that he always wore, wrapped around him much like his blue cloak. Something stirred deep inside d’Artagnan and he felt a sudden urge to go to the man and lick his hand. He recoiled in shock from his own feelings.

A slight smile quirked Athos’ scarred lip. “Next time we go on an assignment, whelp, I shall remind you to take a piss first.”

The words only added to d’Artagnan’s confusion, but the more he groped in his mind for memories of the last few hours, the more they seemed determined to slip away.

Aramis handed him a cup of water and he lapped gratefully at it.

Something strange had clearly happened. He just didn’t know what and his friends were not rushing to enlighten him, which concerned him even more.


End file.
